


Till the End of Time

by Raicho



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - World War II, Blind Dean, Blindness, Deaf, Deaf Dean, Deaf Dean Winchester, Destiel - Freeform, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hospitalized Dean, Hurt Dean, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Injured Dean, Injured Limbs, M/M, Post-World War II, Soldier Castiel, Soldier Dean, Soldiers, WWII, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-03
Updated: 2014-01-03
Packaged: 2018-01-07 06:41:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1116701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raicho/pseuds/Raicho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean has been plagued with cruel hallucinations since he's been discharged from his infantry. Is the latest hallucination standing in his doorway a cruel trick or a welcomed surprise?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Till the End of Time

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Time Can Do So Much](https://archiveofourown.org/works/755128) by [Raicho](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raicho/pseuds/Raicho). 



> This is sort of an AU ending for my 'Time Can Do So Much' WWII fic.

            He blinked his eyes twice, his lashes dusted against the partially freckled skin of his scarred face. His right side had taken the brunt of the damage when the bomb went off, sending sharp, angry shards of shrapnel firing off into his direction. Thankfully the damage wasn’t lethal; however it did leave him with a blind eye, deaf ear, a bum leg, and a covering of nasty looking burn marks and scars. Yeah, it looked like the eldest Winchester son had been to Hell and back.

            Scooting himself to the side edge of his cot, he tried to squint his good eye in focus so that he could peer at the familiar silhouette that stood in his hospital room doorway. Forcing himself up into a sitting position with a forced groan, he bent over and tried to massage out the kink in his lower back—that’s what he gets for laying around like a useless invalid, he supposed. He reached with his good trigger hand and fondled his way around the nightstand in search of the lamp switch. With an almost silent click, his dim patient room was illuminated with a yellow glow from the opal-shaded Akron lamp.

            Again he turned his attention toward the darkened figure in the doorway. He rubbed at his blind eye with anger, wishing to God he could get it together just long enough to figure out who or what the fuck was mocking him this time—he couldn’t handle any more of his vivid hallucinations; dead people coming to him and begging him to spare their lives. He slumped over, digging his elbows into the meat of his thighs and cupping his forehead in the palms of his hands.

            Closing his eyes and wiping the sweat off of his worried brow, he groaned aloud, “What the hell do you want from me?”

            The figure shifted his position, pushing itself from its comfortable lean against the doorway paneling. It stood still with a hand slightly outstretched in the direction of the man’s bed.

            Noting how the figure remained at a distance, he began again, “Haven’t I given enough to this damn war? Why you gotta rob me of my peaceful dreams, too, huh?” the man’s voice began to rise with frustration, “It’s the only damned thing I have to look forward to anymore! Do you really gotta take him away from me in this way, too?” His shoulders were shaking and his breath was fast and unsteady.

            “Dean…” The figure took a step closer, but the deaf man continued to sob in anger.

            “I’m sorry! I’m fuckin’ sorry for everythin’ I did to you poor sonsabitches—I truly am.” His voice cracked under the weight of his heavy emotions, “But, please, I’m beggin’ ya, please let me dream about him comin’ home—just once is all I’m askin’.”

            “Dean, it’s me…” The figure cautiously ambled forward, its one hand extended in front of him as a sign of peace.

            When the figure from the door made it far enough into the room for its features to be exposed by the flame of the lamp, the figure stilled again. It watched quietly as the deaf man sobbed and his body shook with mourning.

            After a moment, the Dean lifted his eye to spy if whether or not the intruder was still present; he was secretly praying that his nightmare had happily vanished. When he raised his stare, he was overwhelmed by the sight he witnessed standing just barely three feet away from his hospital issued cot. He flung his hand over his gasping mouth and his eyes widened with shock, taking on the appearance as if he had seen a ghost pacing the quiet halls.

            Smiling down at Dean, the figure tilted its head and smiled, “Dean,” it stepped closer, “I’ve been waiting to see you.

            A tear streaked down the wounded soldier’s face as he all at once read and heard the recognizable chapped lips and gravel-like voice speak to him. Dean straightened his posture and held his gaze with the now clearly-visible ocean-blue eyes that towered over him. He took in the sight slowly, looking over every detail from the familiar stranger’s ruffled black hair to his scuffed black boots.

            “It can’t be you.” Dean blinked again; not wanting to be disappointed at the thought of the man in front of him disappearing if he so happened to be another of his all-to-often hallucinations.

            The blue-eyed man nodded and smiled, his pearly whites glistened in the light, “It is, Dean. I’ve been trying to get back to you all this time,” he lowered himself to his knees and kneels against the hospital cot, “I’m so sorry it took me this long to return.”

            “They said you were dead.” The man sitting on the cot shook his head, “Shot up like Swiss cheese.”

            It’s the kneeling man’s turn to shake his head as he cups the hands of the doubtful soldier, “No, baby, it’s me—I’m still here.”

            Taking a moment to really take in the sight of what was in front of him, Dean finally let a gentle smile spread across his lips, “Cas?”

            “Yeah, Dean, I’m home.” Cas leaned forward and kissed the backside of Dean’s calloused hand, “I’m so sorry, Dean.”

            Cas rose to his feet and bent over enough to so that he could cup the injured side of Dean’s face in his grasp; he delicately stroked his thumb over the wan, raised skin of Dean’s scars. He stared into Dean’s pale, milky dead eye and felt his heart burst with regret. He leaned forward and kissed his once-lover atop the center of his forehead.

            “I wish I could take your pain away.” Cas sighed, stepping a foot back and stretched out his arms for Dean to take hold of.

            Dean reached for Cas’ extended palms and pulled himself up from the edge of the cot. His wounded leg buckled momentarily, causing him to sink further into Cas’ grip. The warmth of his lover’s arms enveloped Dean in a cocoon of familiar safety. They stood in silence for a moment, taking in the sound of each other’s beating hearts and soothing breaths.

            The moment was interrupted as the pleasant sound of music carried from the hospital’s radio intercom gradually flooded the room. Both men chuckled at the sound of Peggy Lee’s voice singing _How Deep is the Ocean?_ floating through Dean’s room.

            Looking down at the slumped man in his arms, Cas whispered, “Care for a dance?”

            Dean simply smiled up at Cas and wrapped his own arm around the blue-eyed man’s shoulder as Cas placed his own hand against the small of Dean’s back; their other free hands intertwined with each other. Together, the two tired soldiers rocked back and forth to the tune.

            “Why didn’t you write?” Dean asked, not wanting to meet the blue-eyed man’s eyes.

            Continuing with the pace of the dance, Cas responded, “I tried, Dean,” he tried to explain, “I wrote you damn every day.”

            “I thought you were dead for the past few months—nearly drove myself insane wishin’ I could see you walk through our front door again someday.” Dean shed a single tear from his single green eye, “They told me Corporal Novak was shot and killed during the battle for the Rhineland.”

            “I’m so sorry, baby.” Cas kissed the tip of Dean’s ear, “It wasn’t me who was killed.”

            Dean stilled and looked up at Cas with an understanding expression, “I’m sorry, angel.”

            “It’s not your fault, Dean.” Cas resumed dancing, “I blame the greed of humanity.”

            “Yeah, no kiddin’—” Dean was cut off when his leg buckled again and sent him falling to his knees.

            Before he fell face first into the tiled floor, Dean caught his weight on the downturned mitts of his hands smacking into the cool tile. Cas immediately stooped to his side and began aiding him to his feet; he took hold of Dean’s hand and began lifting.

            “Sorry,” Dean apologized, embarrassed by his bum leg, “The stupid thing can barely hold my weight anymore; they say I might have to amputate it if I don’t adjust soon.”

            Cas looked on sympathetically as Dean blushed and patted his sore knee, “How did this happen, Dean?”

            Dean fell silent for a few seconds, his expression taking on a blank appearance before he cleared his throat, “It was a bomb.”

            Cas grimly nodded and held Dean all the more close to his chest. The two danced in silence as the tune changed to _Till the End of Time_ by Doris Day.

            “Does it bother you?” Dean blurted aloud.

            Cas looked confused, “Does what bother me?”

            “Y’know…” Dean waved a hand toward his left side, “Me. My appearance. Doesn’t it gross you out?”

            Cas stared at Dean with a disquiet sensation before Dean wildly waved his hand again, this time trying to avoid his answer, “You know what, no don’t answer that, I’m sorry.”

            Cas went to open his mouth but was quickly stopped again by Dean’s panicking interruption, “Do you still love me?” The freckled man blushed and allowed a few tear droplets to escape the corner of his eye.

            Cas grimaced and shook his head, “Dean, all those times that I told you how much I love you—back when we were young and naïve—I still mean every word I said.”

            And with that said, Cas began singing along to the words of the music, softly humming into Dean’s working ear.

_Till the wells run dry,_

_And each mountain disappears,_

_I’ll be there for you, to care for you,_

_Through laughter and through tears._

_So, take my heart in sweet surrender,_

_And tenderly say that I’m,_

_The one you love and live for,_

_Till the end of time._

 

            Dean relaxed against the solid bulk of Cas’ chest and closed his eyes, breathing in the sweet scent of musky vanilla and fresh rain. They rocked each other for moments; it felt like a perfect eternity. Neither had thought this moment possible moments ago, but here they were—together at last. No matter what was thrown their way, whether it be discrimination or gunfire, these two lovers would always find a way back to each other.

            Dean and Cas’ lips locked, slow and sensual, prolonging the parting of supple flesh. They stared into each other’s eyes, searching for the right words to express for their unyielding loyalty. Dean breathed out low and quietly, tilting his head just enough to reach Cas’ ear.

            “Till the end of time, Cas.”


End file.
